CHAPTER ONE — THE CONTRACT SHE NEVER READ
Aria Dawson kept her head low as she hurried down the marble steps of the metro station, the straps of her worn-out handbag digging into her shoulder. The early morning wind slapped against her face, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust from the passing traffic. She didn't slow down. She couldn't. If she was late again, the manager would cut her shift, and she desperately needed the money.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't bother checking. It was probably the school reminding her that her brother, Liam, still hadn't paid part of his tuition fees. Again. She swallowed the knot in her throat and quickened her steps, weaving through people already dressed in fine suits and polished shoes. Their world was different from hers. She existed on the edge of it—never invited, never seen.
The glass doors of the hotel towered above her like a monument to wealth. Five gold stars glimmered on the sign above the entrance: Grand Sterling Hotel. She'd never stepped inside as a guest. Only as staff. Temporary staff. The kind they forgot the moment their shift was done.
She found the service entrance at the side and pushed it open. The hallway smelled of bleach and coffee. Uniformed staff moved quickly, preparing the venue for a high-profile corporate event set to begin in less than an hour.
"Aria!" A sharp voice cut through the noise.
She turned to see Martha, the supervisor, walking briskly toward her with a clipboard pressed against her chest and irritation already forming between her brows.
"You're late by five minutes."
"I'm sorry," Aria said, catching her breath as she adjusted the collar of her white catering shirt. "The metro was delayed—"
"Excuses don't matter here," Martha cut her off. "You're lucky they still need extra hands for the luncheon upstairs. Get to Conference Hall B. And don't speak unless spoken to. These are VIP guests."
Aria nodded quickly and hurried down the corridor, ignoring the burning in her legs. She passed the kitchen doors, where chefs shouted orders and clattered pans in organized chaos. A waiter nearly collided with her, carrying trays of champagne flutes, but she side-stepped at the last second.
Conference Hall B was lit with crystal chandeliers that reflected on the polished marble floor. Tables had already been set up with name placards, folders, and refreshments. She spotted three other servers lining up by the far wall, and she quickly joined them.
Whatever company was holding the event had money—real money. The kind that paid for fresh orchids at every table and imported pastries stacked like miniature sculptures. She tried not to stare. She had no reason to.
Martha's voice echoed through the hall, giving last-minute instructions, but Aria's mind drifted. She thought of Liam sitting in their small apartment right now, probably eating leftover noodles before school. She'd left him bus fare and a note asking him to microwave the rest of the food at lunch. She hated that she couldn't give him better.
"Servers," Martha snapped her fingers, pulling Aria back to the present. "Once the guests enter, stand by the corners until called for."
The double doors to the hall swung open, and people in tailored suits began pouring in. Their shoes were quiet on the marble, but their voices were confident, measured. Some were already on their phones. Others were shaking hands or exchanging business cards.
Aria kept her head bowed, hands folded behind her back, trying to blend into the background.
A man in a grey suit approached the table closest to her and picked up one of the folders. "They don't waste time, do they?" he muttered to the woman beside him.
"Not when the Blackwood Corporation is involved," she replied under her breath.
The name made a few heads turn. Aria had heard it before. Everyone had. One of the largest family-owned conglomerates in the city. Their businesses stretched across finance, real estate, luxury brands, and technology. And at the top of it all was the man the media called an ice sculpture in a suit—Damian Blackwood.
She didn't bother looking for him. A man like that would never notice someone like her.
An hour passed in silence and controlled movements. Aria refilled glasses, replaced napkins, and moved efficiently between guests who didn't once make eye contact with her.
Just as they were preparing for the next segment of the luncheon, a man in a dark vest approached the servers. He carried a small stack of documents and scanned the group with mild impatience.
"We're missing one of the contracted staff signatures," he said. His tone was clipped but not unkind.
Aria blinked. "What signatures?"
He held the papers out to her. "Temporary hires need to confirm their work agreement with the event host. It's standard. Sign at the bottom. Print your name clearly. We're in a rush."
Her hands were slightly wet from carrying a pitcher of water, so she wiped them quickly on the side of her apron before taking the paper and pen. The document was several pages long, filled with blocks of text. She didn't have the luxury of reading it word for word—not with Martha watching from across the room.
She signed where indicated.
"There," she said quietly, handing it back.
The man nodded and moved away without checking.
Aria inhaled and exhaled slowly. If this signature meant she'd get paid on time, she didn't care what the fine print said.
Minutes later, Martha came to her again.
"You," she said, pointing at Aria. "Bring the tray of folders to the adjoining hall. They need them for the private signing."
Aria grabbed the tray and followed another attendant through a side doorway. The hall beyond was smaller, more intimate, and surrounded by thick curtains. Only a handful of people were there—men and women in suits with expressions carved from stone.
She placed the tray on a low table and prepared to leave, but someone called out to her.
"You. Wait."
The voice was male—deep, smooth, and devoid of warmth. It froze her feet before she even realized she had stopped.
She turned slowly.
He was standing near the head of the room, tall and broad-shouldered, his suit tailored to perfection. His dark hair was swept neatly back, revealing sharp features and unreadable eyes. His presence was heavy, like a silent command that bent the air around him.
She didn't need to ask his name.
Damian Blackwood.
He glanced briefly at the documents in his hand, then at her face, though his expression didn't change.
"You signed the contract?" he asked.
Aria's heart skipped. "I—yes. One of the staff members gave it to me."
There was a flicker in his gaze, something unreadable passing behind it. But he didn't question further. Instead, he turned to the elderly man beside him—someone who looked like a lawyer or advisor.
"It's done, then," Damian said quietly.
"Legally binding," the older man confirmed.
Aria lowered her eyes and stepped back, assuming that was the end of it. She didn't understand why he'd asked her that, but she wasn't about to linger where she didn't belong.
Before she could slip out of the hall, another person entered—a woman in a sleek navy suit with a tightened expression.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said, voice low. "The media is already preparing to release the announcement."
Announcement?
Damian didn't turn his head. "Let them."
The woman hesitated. "And the bride?"
Bride.
Aria paused mid-step.
"She's already signed," the elderly man said calmly. "There are no loose ends."
Bride.
The word echoed again.
Aria felt something cold snake up her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one was looking at her. They weren't talking about her. They couldn't be.
She pushed open the door to leave—only for another staff member to rush toward her breathlessly.
"Miss Dawson!" he whispered urgently, thrusting his phone toward her. "Is that… you?"
The screen showed a breaking news headline splashed across a popular business feed:
"Damian Blackwood Confirms Surprise Marriage—Identity of New Wife Revealed Soon"
The photo attached was of her from this morning—walking into the hotel.
Her vision blurred for a moment.
Someone behind her spoke again, this time clearly:
"Bring her back inside."
And before she could even think of running—
Two guards stepped in front of the exit.
Everything she thought she understood about today shattered in silen
ce.
Understood. I will not ask you anything—only continue writing.
Aria's breath caught in her throat as the guards positioned themselves at the door, blocking her only escape. The staff member who showed her the news lowered his phone slowly, his face pale with dawning realization. She didn't move, didn't blink. Her mind couldn't keep up with the speed at which everything around her shifted.
Someone touched her elbow lightly.
"Miss Dawson, this way."
It wasn't a request. The voice belonged to a man in his early forties, dressed immaculately in a charcoal suit. His expression was calm but firm, the kind of face that had long stopped reacting to panic.
Aria hesitated. "I think there's been a mistake. I'm just—"
"You signed," he said evenly, as if that answered everything. "Come inside."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. The folder. The papers. That signature she'd scribbled without reading—her name in ink beside his.
He didn't give her time to think. He guided her gently but unyieldingly back into the hall. Her feet moved on instinct, silent against the carpet, even though her mind screamed to run.
Inside, the room had taken on a different atmosphere. The people were no longer just corporate attendees—they were witnesses. Some looked intrigued, others stoic, a few mildly uncomfortable. But no one seemed surprised.
Damian Blackwood stood near the center, his presence pulling every gaze like gravity. His hands were in his pockets, posture relaxed but commanding. Those dark eyes settled on her the moment she entered, and it was like being pinned beneath a frost-coated blade.
The man who'd escorted her stopped a few steps behind her, as if presenting her.
"She's here."
Damian's gaze traveled over her slowly, not with curiosity but with finality. As though he had already assessed everything about her before she arrived.
Aria forced herself to speak. "I didn't agree to any marriage. I thought it was a work form. I'm not—this is a misunderstanding."
The elderly man from earlier—a lawyer, likely—stepped forward with the signed pages in hand. He adjusted his glasses and held them up.
"Miss Aria Dawson, is this your signature?"
She stared at it. Her breath stuttered in her chest. "Yes, but I didn't know—"
"The contract states," he continued, unbothered by her interruption, "that you consent to a confidential legal union with Mr. Blackwood, effective immediately, under mutually binding terms. All clauses were acknowledged by signature."
Aria shook her head, panic twisting her voice. "I didn't read it. Someone just told me to sign—"
The lawyer closed the folder. "Intent does not nullify execution when documentation is clear."
She clenched her fists. "Then I want to nullify it now."
A faint murmur rippled through the room.
Damian finally spoke.
"You can't."
Two words. Calm. Absolute. They cut through the space like iron.
Aria stared at him in disbelief. "You can't force me into something illegal."
One of his eyebrows lifted by a fraction. "Nothing about this is illegal."
"I didn't agree knowingly—"
"You signed your name," he replied, voice low and steady. "You accepted the binding terms."
"I thought it was an employment form," she snapped, anger pushing through her fear.
"That," he said coolly, "is your mistake, not mine."
She took a step forward, glaring. "You're not going to keep me here. I can walk out and tell everyone this is a setup."
Before she could say more, the woman in the navy suit approached with a tablet in hand.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said quietly, "the press is preparing to release their articles within the hour. They're waiting for the official statement."
Aria whipped her head toward her. "Press?!"
Damian did not look away from Aria as he spoke to the woman. "Proceed according to schedule."
The woman gave a short nod and stepped away, already dialing a number.
Aria's throat tightened. "You're insane if you think I'm going to let you announce this!"
His eyes narrowed just a degree, as if her resistance mildly inconvenienced him.
"You don't have the ability to stop it."
Her voice shook with fury. "Watch me—"
She turned to the door.
The two guards stepped forward.
"Move," she said, glaring at them.
They didn't.
She tried to shove past one, but his arm came down like a wall in front of her. She stumbled back a step, breathing hard.
The man in the charcoal suit approached again, tone devoid of emotion. "Miss Dawson, I suggest you maintain composure. There are protocols to follow."
She looked around at the dozen faces that watched her without lifting a finger to help. She had never felt so small.
"I'm not your bride," she spat. "He can find someone else for whatever deal he's trying to secure."
Damian's expression didn't change. "No. I can't."
Anger flared in her chest. "Why not? You clearly have a thousand women lined up to marry you."
"I don't need a thousand," he said flatly. "I need one who has already signed."
She froze.
He glanced at the lawyer. "Is there any legal route for her to annul without penalty?"
The old man opened the folder again, flipping through the pages as though checking something trivial. "No. Unless both parties consent or the contract is proven fraudulent—which it is not—any breach comes with fines, nondisclosure restrictions, and compulsory litigation."
"How much?" Aria demanded.
He glanced up mildly. "Five million dollars in liquid compensation for damages, plus fees."
The room blurred around her.
Damian straightened slightly, his gaze unreadable. "You can't afford to leave. So you'll stay."
Aria's knees weakened for a moment, but she forced herself upright. "You think money can cage anyone you want?"
His tone was indifferent. "No. Just you."
Something inside her snapped.
She marched toward him before anyone could stop her. The room stiffened instantly. Two men moved from the corner, but Damian raised one hand and they froze in place.
Aria stood inches away, eyes blazing up at him. "You won't get away with this."
He looked down at her, voice like polished steel. "I already have."
She wanted to claw the arrogance off his face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.
But the reality wrapped around her throat like invisible hands. If she broke the contract, she'd spend the rest of her life in debt she couldn't pay back in ten lifetimes.
Her breaths came unevenly.
Damian watched her, calm in the storm he'd created.
"You will leave here as my wife," he said softly, "and you will do it without causing a scene."
Aria's lips trembled with rage. "I don't belong to you."
"You belong to the contract," he replied. "And the contract belongs to me."
His words fell with the weight of a verdict.
She didn't speak again. She couldn't—not without breaking.
But in the silence that followed, one thought carved itself into her mind:
This wasn't the end of her freedom
. It was the beginning of a war.